I am sometimes told that I come off as intimidating. This always surprises me, because I’m pretty convinced that I’m a giant dork, which, I know, is what everyone says, but still: in my case it’s absolutely one hundred and sixty seven percent true. I mean, I have spent pretty much the entirety of my life so far – with the exception of the times that I was doing this stuff – huddled in corners reading books and scribbling stories and that, my friends, is a sure-fire way to grow up with no life skills.

Life skills like, agreeing to do things like ‘ride a zip line’ without knowing what a zip line is (the evidence presents itself about a minute in):
(continue reading…)

It is very important, when you are staying up after your bedtime so that you can be awake when Mommy gets home, even though Mommy is having trouble getting home, and it is getting very late, it is very important that you know how to tell when you are sleepy, and when you are not, because then you can explain it, so that everyone understands, and no-one will accidentally put you to bed, because that would ruin all of your plans for staying up and giving Mommy the present that you made for her, which is a picture of a great big orange heart, inside which you’ve listed all the things – candy, cake, juice, straws, marshmallows and (for her) coffee (which you spell KOFFY) – that you need her to buy at the grocery store as soon as it opens in the morning. So.

Today, I’m flying to California. Palm Springs, specifically, and then Disneyland (because, you know, you just don’t cross the San Andreas fault line without going to Disneyland. At least, I don’t.) California invited me, which was really awesome of California, I thought. There aren’t many states that will just go ahead and invite you to visit them and put you up and buy you dinner and stuff (I’m looking at you, New York). I’m not really sure what kind of hostess gift you give a lady like California – doesn’t she have everything, already? – but I’m thinking maybe some bacon-scented candles.

Anyway. Expect pictures of cacti and stuff. And modernist architecture and aliens, and maybe some roaming Coachella zombies who totally didn’t notice that the bands stopped playing, if I can find them. And then some princesses, of course, because, seriously: princesses.

Sick. Miserable. Nothing to see here, folks; move along.

(Move along to this, maybe: this is something special that I’m trying to do even while I’m wiping my nose and quaffing flu meds. And then maybe consider throwing a vote at me for the Bloggies – I’m a finalist in the category of Best Canadian Blog, which means that if I win, BACON FOR EVERYONE – and also maybe for this BlogHer Room Of Your Own panel that I’d love to see happen. Also this one.) (You don’t need to be Canadian to vote for me in the Bloggies, and you don’t need to be going to BlogHer to give a thumbs up for that panel, so. NO EXCUSES.)

(When you’re done all that, send more Nyquil.)

Happy face, sad nose.

(*Words of wisdom in the title of this post courtesy Emilia, age 4.)

I am so emotionally spent from having written – and moderated discussion in – yesterday’s post that I may not be able to post anything more than pictures of meerkats or toddlers for a couple of days. Maybe just the toddlers. I don’t have a meerkat.

Not pictured: meerkat.

In the meantime, you could join my group – bad mothers ahoy! – at Savvy Source. Or check out my name in the speaking line-up for the Mom 2.0 Summit (you’re going, right?). Or read what I had to say about breastfeeding dolls and MILFs over at the Bad Moms Club.

Or check out my meerkats.